


no mercy for you

by lukegodbaby



Series: hatef--k [4]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst, Discussions of Suicide, F/M, Hospitalization, Suicidal Ideation, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, all hail samantha my bpd queen...., transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 23:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20825870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukegodbaby/pseuds/lukegodbaby
Summary: patrick goes to inpatient.





	no mercy for you

**Author's Note:**

> some of the things Patrick experiences are based on my time in inpatient. meds, being roomed with the wrong gender, bad visitations, etc.

**DAY ZERO. MIDNIGHT. **

When the intake process was over, Charlie squeezed Patrick's hand one last time. 

Patrick smiled. 

"See you on the other side, Chuck," he said. 

"Call the clinic as soon as you're given your patient ID," she said. "We will do phone calls. Don't forget."

"I won't."

The door to the private intake room opened, a nurse on the other side. 

"Patrick Hockstetter," she said. 

"That's me," he yawned. 

"It's time," she said. "We're going to your unit, now."

"Fuckin' finally," he said. 

Charlie smiled, but it was tight. 

"We were beginning to think there was no room at the inn," she said. 

The nurse chuckled. Patrick stood, Charlie following his lead. 

"It's quite the process, isn't it?" the nurse said. 

"Yeah," Patrick said. 

Then he looked at Charlie. 

"I guess… I'll talk to you soon?"

"Yes," she said. "Soon."

They stepped out into the hall. The nurse put herself between Patrick and Charlie, gesturing for Charlie to, kindly, fuck off. 

"Goodbye, Patrick. Sleep well."

"Bye, Chuck."

Charlie gave a little wave, looking for a moment like she wanted to hug him. Then she walked away. 

"It's nice of her," the nurse said, walking away, Patrick hurrying to follow her, "your sister helping you during intake."

"She's my shrink," he said. 

"Oh."

They reached the end of the hall, and she unlocked the door leading into the rest of the facility. 

After that door, another hall. And another. Finally, they reached a door with a plate next to it on the wall. 

It read: 

** ADULT UNIT  **

"Home sweet home," the nurse said, unlocking the door. 

"Wait, what?" Patrick asked. "The adult unit? Why am I here?"

"Patrick," the nurse said, "you admitted yourself to our facilities because you felt unsafe."

She gestured for him to go through the door. He didn't move. 

"Focus," he nearly snarled, "why the _adult_ unit?"

"Because, Patrick, you're too old for the pediatric unit."

"_I'm only nineteen._"

"Which is older than eighteen."

He sighed and entered the unit. 

She gestured to the open door to their left. 

"This will be your room," she said. 

He looked. Next to the door, another plate, chalkboard. His first name under the name _Samuel. _

He nodded. 

"You have to take your night pills," she said, walking on, "and then you can go to bed."

At the end of the hall, a room. A counter. His pills. He took them. 

They told him to go to bed. 

He wandered back down the hall. 

At his door, leaning against the doorjamb, stood… a man? A woman? 

A black person in a nightgown. 

"Hey, roomie," they said. 

"Uh," he said. "Musta got the wrong room. Where's, uh, Samuel's room?"

"It's Samantha, actually," they said, gesturing to themself. "You got it right. Well, the room."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Child, this place is a joke. But no. We're roomies."

"Are you… some kinda transvestite?"

"That's just a cross dresser. I'm a transsexual woman."

He blinked. 

"Okay, transsexual or not, I don't think I should be roomed with a woman. I'm gonna… go talk to them."

Samantha laughed. She waved him off. 

At the desk: 

"You put me with a chick."

"No, we didn't," said some random guy in scrubs. 

Patrick squinted at the guy's name tag. _Robert_. 

"Robert," Patrick said, "listen, buddy, she may be transsexual, or whatever, but she's still a chick, and I don't want to be roomed with her."

"We don't accept delusions as proof of gender. Go to bed."

"I'm pretty sure she's not delusional. She's wearing a nightgown."

The nurse from before approached them. 

"Patrick, is there a problem?" she asked. 

He looked at her name tag. 

"Yeah, _Sarah_, there is a problem. This asshole is telling me Samantha's delusional, but I'm delusional, and I don't fucking wear nightgowns to bed."

"Delusions differ from person to person, and watch your language," said Robert. 

"I will_ not_ watch my language," Patrick growled. "First, you put me with the adults, so I should be able to swear if I want to. Then you put me with a chick."

"We don't recognize —"

"_Delusions, _yeah, I get it. Fuck you."

He left the desk. 

Back at the door of what would be his room, no matter what, Samantha stood, grinning. 

"Did you call Robert an asshole?"

"Son of a bitch had it coming."

"Can't disagree with you, there," she sighed. "Welcome home."

"Yeah. I feel _so_ welcome."

They went into the dark room. He looked around. It was small, two twin beds. One already messed up; Samantha's. One left alone; his. 

He went to his bed. Pulled off his boots, pulled back the thin blanket and crawled into bed. 

Samantha huffed out a laugh and got in her own bed. 

"What got you locked up?" she asked.

"Felt suicidal."

"Mm."

"What about you?"

"The same. But my _delusions _got in the way of me living a happy life."

"I don't think yours are gonna go away."

"They haven't, yet."

"How long have you been here?"

"Thirty-two days."

"Christ all Friday."

"Mm hm."

"Well. Goodnight, I guess."

"Goodnight."

\---

**DAY ONE. 7:31 AM. **

There was nothing in the breakfast they'd brought him that he wanted to eat. 

They took his blood, and now they wanted him to eat garbage. 

"Hey, Patrick," called a familiar voice from across the room. 

He looked. Samantha. 

"Hey," he said. 

"You smoke?"

"Yeah."

"Well, c'mon. Next smoke break isn't for an hour and a half."

He stood, abandoning the shit on a shingle they'd expected him to eat.

She took his hand, leading him to the door he'd come in last night. She squeezed his hand and dropped it, waiting with half the patients on the unit to go smoke. 

They went outside. One by one, the nurse lit their cigarettes. Patrick got a clove from the pack he'd had with him when shit hit the fan.

He was fine. Hungry and tired, but fine. 

Until he stood up, his sight blacking out and his knees buckling.

"Woah, Trick, I got you," Samantha said as what he assumed to be her arm wrapped around him. 

He grinned even as he felt like he was going to puke. 

"Well, hey there, knight in shining armor," he slurred.

"Damsel in distress," she murmured. 

"You two better cut it out," hissed the nurse who'd lit their cigarettes. "Or one of you will be moved to the detox unit."

Patrick nodded.

And then he puked. 

Five minutes later saw him sitting on his bed in his and Samantha's dark room, getting his blood pressure taken. 

"What have we learned, Patrick?" asked the nurse with the cuff. 

"Eat after getting your blood drawn. Food before cigarettes," he mumbled. 

"Atta boy. You want to lie down, or go to group?"

"Group."

"Group it is," said Samantha from where she sat on her bed. "Can I hold his hand to take him there?"

"Samuel," the nurse sighed, "I don't think there's a power on God's green earth that could stop you from holding his hand. But you know the rules."

"No kissing, no sex," said Samantha dutifully. "Got it."

"Samantha," Patrick grumbled. 

"Huh?"

"Not you, Sam. I was talking to her," he said, nodding at the nurse. "Her name's Samantha. Not Samuel."

The nurse sighed and left. 

"I don't need you to fight my battles," said Samantha. 

"Sorry. It just bugs me. Fuckin' pisses me off."

"I'm a big girl."

"I know."

"Now," she said, holding out a hand, "group time."

He took her hand. 

\---

**DAY THREE. 8:46 AM. **

"And how would you say you're adjusting to the facility, Patrick?"

He looked up from his wrist, from the bracelet Samantha had made him. Red and black pony beads. 

"Uh. It's so-so," he said. 

"Would you like to say more?"

"Well, I don't _completely _want to die," he said, "but I guess I still _kinda_ do. My parents brought me some clothes yesterday, and that's good, but… I'm still sad and angry about what happened to bring me here."

"And what was that?" his individual therapist, Dr. Robinson, asked. 

"Well, my friend told my other friends about me going to therapy, and they were waiting outside when I got out of my sessions. I uh. Wailed on one of them 'cause he pissed me off."

"Excellent."

_What? _

"My notes from your intake tell me you experience solipsistic delusions. Is this correct?"

"Yeah, that's right. Hey, why is me beating up my friend _excellent?"_

"And you also experience and act upon violent thoughts?"

"_Yes. _Answer my fuckin' question."

"My job is not to meet your demands, Patrick. My job is to keep you feeling safe while you are here."

"I'm feeling distinctly unsafe right now. Answer my question. _Please_."

"I was merely commenting so that I could move forward, Patrick."

"Great."

Dr. Robinson tutted and looked at his notes, at Patrick's file. 

"Solipsistic delusions, violent thoughts and actions, suicidal thoughts, cruelty to animals, delusions of grandeur —"

"What was that last bit?"

"Delusions of grandeur. Due to your other delusions, you feel like a god, is that correct?"

Patrick pressed his lips into a thin line. 

"Yes."

"And you say you're not feeling safe. Why is that?"

"You mean besides the fact that I _could_ be in my basement, listening to music and getting high, that I _could _be at home or with my friends, that I _could _be finding some sweet little thing to have sex with, that I _could _be out driving, but I _am _here, listening to someone who doesn't know me listing off everything that's wrong with me?"

"Patrick, you admitted _yourself_ to our facility."

"Yeah, and I'm regretting it."

"Be that as it may, are they really your friends if you, by your own words, beat one up?"

Patrick huffed. 

"Doc, I'm nineteen. Maybe you don't remember it, but friends get in fights. We're guys. It happens."

"Boys will be boys, yes. But you are in a delicate position: trying to get better, to _be_ better. Have you ever thought that, perhaps, friendships that are in turns violent are not what you want or need?"

Patrick tasted bile. He flexed his hands, then pressed them into fists. 

"Besides the endless string of people in my bed, those guys are all I have," he spat. 

"Ah. I see. You said _people."_

"I swing both ways."

Dr. Robinson made a note in his file. 

"Sex addiction," he murmured. 

Patrick barked out a laugh. 

"Sure, whatever you say."

"Patrick, I have a series of questions for you. Please answer truthfully."

"Whatever."

"Do you feel the need to be the center of attention?"

"I guess."

"Let me rephrase: when your attempts at gaining attention fail, do you become enraged?"

He thought of his parents. 

_Look, Mommy. I drew a picture._

_Black and brown again… that's nice, dear…_

"Sure."

“And would you describe yourself as sexual or provocative?”

Patrick closed his eyes.

He took a deep breath.

Greta Bowie. Yeah, he’d fucked her even though he’d sworn he never would.

Boys from the football team.

Cheerleaders.

Vic.

His unending chase for Henry.

A wiggle of the hips, a lick of the lips.

Kisses and groping behind closed doors.

“I guess.”

“How intimate would you describe your friendships as being?”

It seemed like they were always together. When they weren’t, they were getting ready to see each other. All those inside jokes, all that time. All those years.

Surely… surely it wasn’t an illusion.

Tears came to his eyes.

“What’s with the fuckin’ questions, Doc?”

“I see. The river doesn’t run deep, does it?”

In a flash, Patrick was on his feet, yelling.

_“Tell me what the fucking questions are for, you fucking asshole.”_

“Patrick. Sit. Down. I will not continue our session if you do not control yourself.”

Patrick was fully seeing red. Chest on fire. Eyes full of tears.

He was so angry, and so, so scared.

He sat down on the floor. And then he laid down, looking at the ugly tiles that made up the ceiling.

“It is my belief, really just a working diagnosis, that you have histrionic personality disorder, Patrick.”

“Great. One more thing that’s wrong with me.”

“Because you are refusing to behave like an adult, I’m ending this session. In two days, you will see me again. I will terminate our time together if you continue acting like this.”

“I’m fuckin’ nineteen,” Patrick said, wiping the tears off his face. “I’m still in fuckin’ high school. Give me a break.”

Finally, Dr. Robinson looked down at him.

“You are an adult. I expect you to act like one. Get off the floor, and get out of my office.”

“Yessir.”

Patrick got up and left the office, itching for a cigarette. His pack had run out, but Samantha would bum him one, if he asked, which he always did.

He went to the day room. She was sitting there, staring out the window and toying with one of her dozens of braids.

“Sam,” he said.

She turned to look at him. Her eyebrows drew together in concern.

“Jesus _shit_,” she said, grabbing a chair and pulling it right next to hers. “Sit down. Have you been crying?”

He nodded and sat down.

“Doc says I’ve got historic personality disorder, or something.”

She smiled sadly.

“Histrionic, child. I’m so sorry, that’s a bad one.”

_“What do you mean?”_

“Calm down — don’t make a scene, please, they might sedate you.”

“’Kay.”

She took one of his hands.

“It means that histrionic personality disorder, there’s no pills for that. You’ll probably have it your whole life, and they can’t make it go away, just teach you how to be more normal.”

“I don’t — I don’t wanna be normal,” he said, tears starting up again. “Never used to be anything wrong with me.”

She pulled him in for a hug. She ran a hand through his hair.

“I know, honey. I know.”

“No, you _don’t_. You’re just sad you weren’t born a girl.”

“Ouch,” she said, pulling back. “Just because I haven’t talked about the other stuff doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, making himself see stars.

“I have borderline personality disorder,” she said. “And you know something?”

“What?”

“It’s the worst one.”

“Why?”

He took his hands away from his eyes.

She was smiling.

“It’s all extremes,” she said. “I feel like a god one minute, I feel like dirt the next. People love me or they hate me, and I feel the same about them, about ten times a day. Doctors refuse to treat me because I might start to idealize them, then they’ll be in it deep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too, honey. You don’t just get shit like this from nothing.”

“But… but nothing happened to me. I’ve just been evil… my whole life.”

“You’re not evil, Trick.”

He looked at her hands, holding his. The bracelet he’d made her, pink and blue.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Would someone evil do that for me?”

“I guess not. But I still don’t think anything happened to me.”

“Maybe it really was nothing,” she said. “Did your parents ever even care about you?”

He closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder.

“Can’t remember ever getting a hug,” he said.

“See? The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.”

“Your therapist tell you that?”

“I don’t have a therapist outside.”

He opened his eyes, staring as if dead out the window.

“Who told you that you had to come here?”

“The police. I was, well. Going to hop off a very tall bridge.”

“Mm.”

“Samuel?” came Robert’s voice. “Midday pills.”

“Yeah, boss, I’m coming.”

She gave Patrick one last smile, patting his knee with her dark hand.

He rubbed the spot where her hand had been as he watched her walk away.

\---

**DAY SEVEN. 3:24 AM.**

“Patrick, wake up.”

Vic was on top of him, smiling down at him like he was God. Riding his cock all slow and sweet, boyfriend from Etna forgotten.

“Patrick, _wake up_.”

He jerked awake, cock painfully hard, Samantha right in front of him.

“Mary mother of God, Sam,” he hissed. “What time is it?”

“Wet dream o’clock, apparently,” she whispered. “You were about to wake the whole unit up. Everyone who’s awake knows about this guy _Vic_, now.”

Quietly, he groaned, rolling over onto his back. He lifted his blanket and looked down his body. His cock was tenting up his pajama pants.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

She smiled and laughed softly.

“Who’s Vic?” she asked.

“My buddy,” he said, rolling over to look at her, where she was kneeling at his bedside. “We, uh, fucked around once, and I guess… I still want him.”

“You guess?” she teased.

“Hey, shut up,” he said, lightly shoving her shoulder.

“No, I shan’t,” she said, putting on a lofty accent. Then she dropped it to say: “what… was he doing in the dream?”

“Riding me,” Patrick said, closing his eyes.

“Oh,” she said.

He opened his eyes, and caught her looking at his crotch.

“Uh, my eyes are up here, Sam.”

“Sorry — um — sorry.”

He huffed out a laugh through his nose.

“’S okay,” he said.

“Um, they’re not gonna do a bed-check for another hour,” she said.

“So?”

“So. Let me take care of you?”

“What?”

With a slow hand, she reached out and drew her fingernails over the blanket over his cock.

He hissed.

“Sam, that’s… a really bad idea, and _exactly_ what I want right now.”

“Good. C’mon.”

She left his bedside, and went to the bathroom in the corner of their room. The tiniest thing, but the only semblance of privacy they had in the whole unit.

Carefully, with a furtive glance at their open door, he got up and followed her.

He stepped into the bathroom, not seeing her for a second. Then his eyes adjusted to the full darkness of the bathroom, and saw how she had tucked herself into the shower.

“You have to be quiet,” she said.

“I’m good at that,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

He kissed her, soft and sweet at first, then hungry, so hungry. Five, six days, it was too long to go without doing this. With anyone, but with her… he’d wanted her since that first morning. He’d wanted her, bad.

“Sam,” he whispered. “Fuck, Sam.”

“Shh, baby,” she whispered. “I got you. Gonna make you feel good.”

She slipped a hand into his pants, pulled her nails up his cock, over the fabric of his boxers.

He hissed and closed his eyes. She nosed at his neck.

“Hush,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to hear a sound from you.”

He nodded, frantic, as she pushed her hand into his boxers and lightly stroked him.

He took her by the sides of her face and pulled her up for a kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth. She sighed into it.

Sighed. Just like Vic.

But she wasn’t Vic, with his boyfriend and those knees that didn’t shake anymore.

She wasn’t anything like him, and she was real, and she was _here_.

“Sam,” he sighed, looking at her with half-shut eyes as she kept stroking his cock.

“Yeah, Trick?”

“I am… _so_ fucking into you.”

She grinned, and then kissed him, no response needed.

Then she got to her knees, pulling his pajamas and boxers down.

Five minutes later, he pulled her to her feet.

He pulled her into a kiss.

“That was… easily the best blow job I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

“Don’t exaggerate, Trick,” she whispered back. “You just haven’t got your dick wet in almost a week.”

He grinned, but shook his head.

“Nah. You… know what you’re doing.”

She smiled, pulling his boxers back up.

He pulled his pajamas back where they needed to be, and kissed her again.

Against her lips, he whispered, “do you want me to…?”

She shook her head.

“I, well. I got off while you were still dreaming.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Bed check!” came a voice from far down the hall.

“Shit,” Patrick hissed. “Go, _go_.”

They both rushed back to their respective beds. In the farthest room from that voice, they were safe for a minute or so.

They lay in bed, looking at each other.

Finally, the nurse arrived at their door, saying, “bed check!”

Patrick waved as though half asleep.

“Go to sleep, Patrick,” sighed the nurse.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

When the footsteps receded from their door, so far away and quiet they couldn’t be heard anymore, he blew a kiss at Samantha. She pretended to catch it and stuff it in her mouth.

He laughed as silently as he could.

\---

**DAY NINE. 7:25 PM.**

“Visitation! Line up if you hear your name,” said Sarah the nurse. “Sherry, Tamara, Thomas, Patrick…”

Patrick’s head jerked up at the sound of his own name.

Samantha looked at him, away from the necklace she was making.

“What the fuck?” she asked. “You asshole, you got a visitor?”

“I didn’t ask for one,” he said.

“What I’d give for a fucking visitor…”

“You share a room with me. You have company.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Patrick! Line up!”

Patrick stood. He got in line.

Together, him and all the other lucky bastards and bitches walked down to the cafeteria. One by one, they were admitted into the large room and led to their respective visitors.

He spotted the bleach blonde head of hair before he’d reached him.

Vic.

He swallowed, hard.

“Patrick, do you know who this is?” asked Shannon, the nurse.

“Yeah. Go away.”

Lifting her eyebrows, she left him.

He sat down at the table, facing Vic.

“Hey, Patrick.”

“Hey, Vic.”

“Why’d she ask if you knew who I was?”

“They, uh, upped my meds yesterday. I’m kinda still doped up.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So, how you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Good,” Vic said, nodding, “that’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“God,” Vic said, barking out a laugh, “you should see Henry’s face. Man, you nearly killed him.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hello? Anyone there?” This said with a hand, waving, in front of Patrick’s face. Patrick jerked his head back, away from the offending hand. “God, how bad’d they dope you up?”

“Fuck you, Vic.”

Vic jerked his own head back.

“Fuck _you_, Patrick. I’m making an observation.”

“You’re making fun of something I have no control over.”

“No control? What happened to _no one does shit to me without my say so_?”

“You have no idea what this place is like.”

“Great. Enlighten me.”

Patrick was seething. He was seeing red.

Through his teeth, he bit out:

“No freedom. I see the sky seven _controlled_ times a day, but only because I smoke. I ran out of smokes four days ago, so I bum off my roommate. My roommate, who is a chick, because they can’t see what she really is, they think she’s making it up.”

“What the —”

“I haven’t heard music the entire time I’ve been here. They added an antidepressant and a mood stabilizer to my meds, upped my anti-psychotic, and they keep telling me I’m addicted to sex.”

“Are they wrong?”

“I don’t know, Vic!” Patrick shouted. “I don’t know if they’re wrong!”

“Patrick,” said Shannon, appearing at his side.

He looked at her, surprised to find that he was face to face with her. He was standing.

“Patrick, do you need to leave?” she asked.

“I — I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he said.

“Whatever, I’m done here,” Vic said, standing, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He backed away from Patrick and Shannon, and Patrick got angry again.

“Thanks for telling them, asshole,” he snapped.

“I brought your leather jacket. And a carton of your cloves. You’re fuckin’ welcome.”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Go fuck your _boyfriend_ and stop pretending you care, okay?”

Vic stopped backing up, and rushed in, pulling back a fist. The security guard near the door, who’d been positioned to help at any time, sped up to them and grabbed Vic by the upper arms, pulling him away.

“I will,” Vic snarled as he was escorted away. “I will, and I’ll fucking _love_ it. He’s _nothing_ like you, Patrick.”

“Good!” Patrick shouted as Vic was taken from the cafeteria.

“Patrick, deep breaths,” Shannon said.

“I can’t — I can’t fucking believe him,” he gasped in between breaths.

“Do you want to go back to the unit?” she asked.

“Please,” he said, tears coming to his eyes.

God, but he missed the days when he never cried.

Shannon put a hand on the small of his back, and led him to the door.

Outside the cafeteria, he broke down. Balled up his right hand into a fist and punched the nearest wall, as hard as he could. Clutching his hand, he slipped down until he was on the floor, staring at his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Patrick,” Shannon sighed.

He looked up at her, expecting to see her irritated and done with him, but he found her looking like she was in just as much pain as him.

“You poor thing,” she said. “Here, give me your good hand, we’ll go back to the unit.”

Swallowing, he nodded and held out the hand that didn’t hurt.

She led him by the hand back to the unit, to the counter. She sat him in the chair where they all got their blood pressure taken every morning, and tended to his raw knuckles.

After that, he was taken to the medical center in the facility, and they x-rayed his hand. No bones broken, just a lot of stress.

When he got back to the unit, it was bedtime. Samantha was brushing her teeth, and looked up when he went into their room, flopping down face-first on his bed.

“What’s eating you, sugar?” she asked after she spat out the suds.

“Vic.”

“Oh. _Oh_… was he your visitor?”

“Yeah, and I wish he wasn’t.”

She rinsed her toothbrush, and went to sit on the edge of his bed.

“I’m so sorry, Trick.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why d’you call me _Trick_?”

He turned his head so he could look up at her, and she smiled.

“In my neighborhood, everyone has a nickname. I thought you needed one.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“What’s yours?”

“Used to be _Papi_. Now it’s _Mami_.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” she asked.

“Nothing you’re actually allowed to do,” he said, sighing.

She nodded, licking her lips.

She bent down, whispering in his ear:

“I'd do it, in a heartbeat.”

\---

**DAY TEN. 12:11 PM.**

“Patrick, as of this morning, your insurance has run out. Do you know what that means?” asked Dr. Robinson.

“Yeah, uh,” Patrick said, remembering some of the other patients talking over lunch yesterday. “It means I can’t stay here anymore.”

“You can stay, and you will, if you are a threat to yourself or anyone else. It just means the insurance company won’t cover it.”

Patrick nodded.

“My question is this: do you feel you are a threat to yourself or anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

Dr. Robinson smiled that slimy grandpa smile he had. Indulgent and creepy.

“Good. Tomorrow, you will go home.”

\---

**DAY ELEVEN. 7:37 AM. **

Yesterday, he'd stolen a crayon from the day room. 

Now, he scrawled on a piece of paper. His first and last name, his parents' phone number. 

He slipped it under Samantha's pillow as she brushed her teeth. 

He went to the bathroom. 

Putting his arms around her from behind, he watched in the spotted mirror as she finished. Bent with her as she spat out the suds.

When she was done, he whispered, "I want you to look me up when you get out of here. Gave you my full name and number. Give me a call, okay?"

She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. 

"I'm trying, _so hard, _to not hate you for leaving me," she said. 

He kissed the back of her neck and stepped away. 

"It's gonna be okay, Sam. You'll get outta this place in no time, in bed with me shortly after."

She waved him away, smiling. 

Grinning, he backed away. 

He got his shit together. He got all gathered up, took his last smoke break with the unit, talking with everyone about what he was looking forward to. Shitty diner food. Music in his car, his real therapist, all his clothes available again… the list went on. 

When it was time, it was time. 

He gathered all his belongings into his arms, in the paper grocery bags they'd been stored in by the unit. 

He began the walk, accompanied by Robert, down the hall from the day room to the doors. 

Halfway down the hall, he was nearly knocked over by a giggling Samantha. 

"Jesus, Sam, what's up?" he asked.

"This," she said. 

And then she leaned in and kissed him, for God and all the world to see. 

He barely got time to smile into it before she was yanked away by Robert and another nurse. 

"Patrick," Robert barked, "go to the doors. I'll be there."

Patrick backed away, his smile falling as he watched Samantha struggle against the nurses. 

"Bye, Trick," she called as his back hit the doors. "I love you."

"I love you too," he whispered. 

\---

**DAY ONE BACK OUTSIDE.**

In his Chevy with the windows down, he lit up a clove. 

He started the engine, and the radio blared at him. He flinched and turned it off. 

The car itself was too loud. Just loud enough, though, to drown out his thoughts. 

He'd been thinking about Samantha… Sam… the entire time he'd been signing out of the facility. She loved him. No one had ever said they loved him, not like that. 

He longed, as he pulled out of the parking lot, to tell Vic all about her. 

He didn't know when he'd talk to him, or any of them, again. 

One year of high school left. If he had to go it alone, he would. 

He would.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at god--baby.tumblr.com


End file.
